


moon is giving sunshine

by escherzo



Series: T4TMA 2021 [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cohabitation, F/M, Mild Praise Kink, Oral Sex, Pre-Series, Sex Toys, Trans Georgie Barker, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Vaginal Sex, mostly just soft and domestic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28541925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: Jon isn’t sure why the words leave his mouth, but they’re out before he can pull them back in. “You could try it on me.”“OhcouldI,” Georgie says, full of teasing delight, and the floor suddenly becomes a very interesting thing to stare at.“If… if you like,” he says, his voice coming out higher-pitched, and he winces at it. “Sometime.” Heiscurious, despite himself. At the very least, maybe it would help clarify what all the fuss is about with these sorts of things.(T4TMA Day 1: Affection/Toys)
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: T4TMA 2021 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090997
Comments: 14
Kudos: 117
Collections: t4tma week 2021





	moon is giving sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to t4tma week! i wrote a truly ludicrous amount for this week (~34k across 7 days) so hopefully at least some of it strikes your fancy. literally all of it includes jon in some fashion. 
> 
> title is from 'marimba song' by laika. 
> 
> general notes: georgie uses clit/breasts to refer to her bits, jon uses cock for his and his chest is not addressed past mentioning he's got a binder on.

“Can you get the last of the bags?” Georgie asks, slightly out of breath as she bustles into the flat with her hat askew and her face flushed, her arms laden with shopping. Her scarf has come half-unwound. She pauses midway through setting down the largest bag to look over to Jon. “Jon? They’re downstairs.”

“Right,” Jon says, crawling out from under the mess of blankets on the sofa and trying to suppress a mournful look as the Admiral, perched just past his feet, pokes his head up and mrrps disapprovingly at being jostled. His socks are somewhere half under the couch, his shoes in a messy pile by the door, his coat--somewhere. He’ll get it later. If he’s quick he won’t need it. 

When he makes his way back up the two flights of stairs to their flat, a box of cat litter bundled into his arms and two bags of groceries haphazardly hanging off his wrists, Georgie’s already unpacked one bag. She looks up, head half in the fridge to try and figure out what takeaway leftovers they can shove to the side to fit in the vegetables he can see poking out from one of the bags on the floor beside her. “Got the post too,” she offers, reaching to the back of the fridge and pulling out a container he’d entirely forgotten existed. She opens it, sniffs, winces at it. 

He sets down his bag. There’s two envelopes on the counter--one looks like junk, and the other is something vaguely official-looking from uni that he’ll need to check later (might be nothing, but he’s juggling half a dozen bits of administrative nonsense about his name at the moment)--and one parcel, small and square and wrapped in brown paper. It’s entirely unremarkable-looking, almost pointedly so, and it has Georgie’s name on it and no return address.

“For you,” he says, holding it up, and she pauses her rearrangement to look over to him again. “Should I open it?”

She takes a moment to give it a good look. “Oh! You know how I said I’d started doing toy reviews?”

“Ah,” he says, and tries not to act like it’s a bomb that could go off at any moment as he sets it back on the counter and looks down into the grocery bags instead to start cataloguing what belongs in the cabinets. “I’ll... leave you to that one, then.” She’s not tried any of them _with_ him, not yet, but he’s thought about that enough for the both of them at this stage. 

Pasta. Rice. Can of beans. He focuses on the mechanical motions of putting the cans with the cans and the pasta on the increasingly large stack they’ve accumulated--if the world ever ends, they’ll have enough pasta to get them through it--instead of thinking about the toy again. When he moved in with Georgie, he’d run into a few of hers in the dresser they shared for the sake of saving space, and tried not to flush, because she loves to tease him about the way he gets flustered so easily by small things like that. It’s not _strange_ to not own any himself, he tells himself. Another can of beans. Vegetable mix. It’s just that he’s never really gotten the appeal, particularly. If he needs to take care of himself, his hands work just fine. He’s not _boring_ , thank you.

“Think I’ve got everything from these bags,” Georgie says brightly, and either he is hiding his fluster well or she’s just choosing to not pay attention to it. “Can you pass me the one behind you?”

Jon nods and twists around for it. “Anything else we still need?” he asks, fiddling with the handle for a moment before he hands it over just to give his hands something to do.

“I hope not,” she says, sighing in mock weariness at the fridge. “There’s no room for anything else in the fridge. When did we order the curry, anyway? It doesn’t _look_ old, but I can’t remember for the life of me.” 

Jon thinks for a long moment. “Last week? Thursday, I think.”

“Oh, that’s alright then,” she says, wedging it back into the fridge with a slight crunching noise and then getting to her feet. The package still sits in the middle of the kitchen counter, taking up far too much of Jon’s spare brainpower, and she grabs a knife from the side of the sink to start cutting it open like having sex toys in the kitchen is nothing. He knows he’s going a bit pink, just thinking about that. It’s still new, living with her. Getting to go through all of these domestic motions with someone who isn’t a half-stranger of a flatmate or his grandmother. It’s more intimate than he’d expected at first. “This is a sex-positive household!” she’d said brightly, early on in their cohabitation, when he’d first gotten flustered about this sort of thing. It’s not that she’s expecting to be--bent over kitchen counters, or anything like that, and the times they have sex are rare enough, but she’s open about things in a way that he’s never been able to be. She wants to be able to talk about them freely in her own flat without worrying about judgement, and that’s fair enough. It’s just very much not what he’s used to yet. 

“What kind is it?” he asks, peering into the package as she opens it. The toy is black, and not one he can readily identify--like a dildo, but with extra bits, and two further wrapped packages tucked alongside. 

“Huh,” she says, drawing it out and looking it over. “It’s self-thrusting, that’s neat.” She hands him one of the packages to start unwrapping and he dutifully does that instead of thinking about anything to do with the dildo--not huge in size, but definitely not what he would call _small_ either--thrusting into her, or him, or anyone in particular. The package in his hand, once he’s unwrapped it, is a remote control, small and black and with three buttons.

She surveys the toy with a critical eye, fingers running over the bits that he presumes are the--self-thrusting ones, stacked accordion rubber at the base, and then roots around in the package for a manual. Sometimes the toys she gets for her reviews don’t come with one, and she complains in an off-hand sort of way when she’s brushing her teeth or cuddling up with the cat at night about it. This one has one. 

“I think this is more for--your sort of anatomy than mine,” she says, catching her lip between her teeth. She opens the little booklet and shows him. He knows his face is red as he reads, and tries to take a deep breath and not get carried away with things. 

“It says it’s safe, uh, for, um.” He clears his throat and tries to slip back into the comfortable, stuffy sort of voice he’s taken to using as of late because it comes out lower than his usual one. It seems to make people take him more seriously as _Jon_. “It says it’s safe for, ah, anal use though.” 

“Oh good,” she says, unwrapping the last little package, which turns out to be a suction cup. “Still, I wish they’d--I know sometimes they see my name and forget what sorts of toys they’re supposed to be sending me. I hope it’ll work.” 

Jon isn’t sure why the words leave his mouth, but they’re out before he can pull them back in. “You could try it on me.”

“Oh _could_ I,” Georgie says, setting down the suction cup, her voice full of teasing delight, and the floor suddenly becomes a very interesting thing to stare at. 

“If… if you like,” he says, his voice coming out higher-pitched, and he winces at it. “Sometime.” He _is_ curious, despite himself. At the very least, maybe it would help clarify what all the fuss is about with these sorts of things. 

“Alright,” Georgie says, and her voice is gentler. She reaches out to rest a hand on his cheek, tipping his face back up from the floor until she can meet his eyes. “I’d like that.” She kisses him, then, soft and sweet, and he closes his eyes and lets himself be lost in it for a moment; she likes to tease him, but she knows this is out of his comfort zone, and when she draws him in close, held against the warm solidity of her body, it makes him feel a little better about having admitted to wanting to _try_. 

They both open their eyes abruptly at the sound of rustling at their feet and then a strange little wet noise. The Admiral is right behind Jon, his mouth open wide on the handle of one of the plastic grocery bags, contentedly chewing away, and they both grab for the bag at once. 

“ _No,_ ” Georgie says, exasperated, trying to extricate the bag from his mouth as Jon gets his arms around the Admiral and pulls from the other direction. The Admiral meows in great disapproval, but finally, after some additional coaxing, lets the bag go and permits himself to be cuddled in Jon’s arms. 

“They’re not for you,” Jon croons at him, scritching him behind the ears, and the Admiral licks his lips once, twice, before finally settling in properly. “You know you’re not allowed to eat the bags.” 

“Menace, that one,” Georgie says, shaking her head as she gathers up the bags and tucks them into the existing pile under the sink. She gives Jon a look that he’s not quite sure how to read as she puts the toy and its accessories back in the box and carries it off to the bedroom. It makes his cheeks heat again anyway. 

He distracts himself by burying his face in cat and tries very hard to stop thinking.

*

“Jon, are you coming to bed?” Georgie calls, later, when Jon is nearly done editing his essay for what feels like the eighteenth time, a pencil behind his ear and a corner of his oversized hoodie’s sleeve in his mouth. There’s a cup of tea at the corner of the coffee table, long forgotten and stone cold, and he blinks at it as he comes back into awareness. When had Georgie set that out? It’s winter, and freezing cold outside, and so the sun has been down for hours. He doesn’t have a good sense at all as to what time it is. His chest aches; he’s been wearing his binder too long. Again. 

“Nearly done,” he calls, plucking the pencil back from behind his ear and chewing on the eraser as he looks over the last paragraph again. 

“It’s midnight,” she says, and her voice is closer; he looks back up from his work again and she’s padded into the front room in loose pyjamas with her feet bare and the strap of her camisole hanging half off her shoulder. “It’s not due until Friday, come on.” 

“I nearly have it,” Jon says, but he doesn’t; he’s been staring at the same sentences without any improvement for long enough that the words no longer make any sense, lost in an unproductive trance. 

“You don’t,” she says, and comes over to drop a gentle kiss on the top of his head. “Come on. It’ll be here in the morning.” 

Jon sighs and sits back, trying to assemble the mess of papers into something resembling a stack, as though the Admiral isn’t just as likely to knock it over while he sleeps than not. Georgie has a fond, exasperated smile on her face; it’s hardly the first time he’s gotten too distracted and lost himself in work. She does so much better with all of this than him. Like the fear of failing out of university isn’t weighing her down as constantly as him, somehow. 

“Coming,” he says, and takes the hand she offers to help him up. 

“You don’t have class until eleven, right?” she asks as he busies himself tucking one of the blankets on the couch around his shoulders like a cape to keep the chill away. “I was thinking…” 

“Hmm?” He blinks up at her. 

“Do you want to try the new toy?” she asks, her smile going a little sharper, an edge of mischief to it. “Since you don’t have to be up so early.” 

Jon swallows. He _did_ say he would, and he is curious, despite himself. There are days when he can’t handle so much as the thought of being naked, much less anything else, but today seems better, so far. Doable. “... Alright,” he says finally, 

She leads him back to the bedroom, hand in hand, and there’s a bit of a bounce to her step. The one lamp on the bedside table is on, but the room is dark besides, and she’s turned up the radiator higher in here, so the tiny space is warm enough that he can let his blanket drop. He leaves it draped over the chair they sometimes use to wedge the door closed if the Admiral’s trying to get in while they’re--occupied, since the door doesn’t latch properly, and tries not to get distracted by the small shower of papers perched on it that scatter to the floor with the motion. 

“Come here,” Georgie says, settling back onto the bed and pushing the blankets aside. She looks up at him with a fond heat in her eyes, her hair brushed over one shoulder. She looks lovely, but then, she always does, and he can’t help but smile at her. Both of the straps of her camisole are hanging down now, and he can see the way her nipples pebble against the thin fabric. Her breasts are small, not even quite a handful, but she loves to have them touched, loves that they’re _there_ , and so they’re what he reaches for first when he clambers onto the bed after her. She closes her eyes and sighs, contented, as he strokes a thumb over her nipple, one breast cradled in his hand, and winds her fingers into his hair. 

“Thought I wasn’t going to be able to get you away from your paper,” she says, and he has to kiss her so he doesn’t start in on something indignant and defensive about how he doesn’t _just_ work, thank you. She means well. He’s just prickly as a default setting sometimes. Her lips feel nice against his, soft and warm, and she sighs, contented, keeping him close with a hand in his hair and one tucked behind his neck. He likes being cradled in like this; a soft curl of heat goes through him as he tries to shift his head and finds that he’s caught where he is. 

“What do you want?” he asks against her lips, and she tucks her hands up under his hoodie to pull him in closer. Her hands are warm, warmer than he’d expected, and she smiles at him in the low light as he shifts enough to get in her lap properly, thighs on either side of her hips. He can feel the first stirrings of hardness under his arse, and he presses back against it reflexively, enjoying the way the weight feels against him. Georgie closes her eyes, her lips parting on a small sound, and rocks with him. 

“Your turn tonight,” she says, after a moment. “Remember?” 

“Right,” he says, and takes a deep breath. It’s silly to be _nervous_. It’s just Georgie. She’s accidentally knocked him off the bed more than once, and one time they both ended up rolling off the cramped mattress and onto the floor and then went back to kissing once his leg stopped smarting from the impact. He’s gotten distracted and started petting the Admiral while going down on her. They’ve both had to pause, or stop entirely, because parts that were okay to touch earlier in the day weren’t right in the heat of the moment. It doesn’t matter what kind of reactions he has to the toy; he trusts her, and if it’s a disaster, she’ll find a way to make it a fun one. 

Jon brings his hands to touch hers through the thin fabric of his old hoodie and squeezes once before starting to tug it up and over his head, and even in the warmth of their tiny room the sudden air on his bare skin makes him shiver. His binder is still on, and that’s something, but he rucks it up a bit higher as he leans back in to kiss Georgie again. It doesn’t make it easier to breathe, exactly, but it _feels_ easier. This time, when she moves against him, it’s with more intent, a slow grind that he starts to feel himself respond to, too, the heat and friction of it, the shared air in this little space as she pulls him in close to herself. Her camisole is falling down entirely, bit by bit, and he slips his hand under it with a little smile to hear her harsh intake of breath. 

She draws him back in, deeper, her mouth moving hot against his, and he stops thinking entirely, all of his focus on the way her tongue curls around his, the heat of her, the way she slowly grinds against him, one hand in his hair and the other at his hips, stroking over the sharp jut of his hipbone as she guides him onto herself. He can feel his heart beating faster, the curl of arousal sharpening, deepening as her hips move with more intent, and when she slides her hand from his hip to cup him through his pants, he closes his eyes and huffs out a little noise into her mouth. He takes a long time to get going, and mostly only responds to stimulation, but she’s used to that; she doesn’t touch beyond keeping her hand tucked there, just giving him pressure to rut against, and slowly he lets it build, fucking against her hand harder until his breath is coming short and sweat is beginning to bead at his temples. 

“Do you want my fingers?” she asks, and tips her head to the side obligingly as he leans down to suck a hickey into the crook of her neck, enjoying the way the skin darkens around his mouth and the way the tail end of her sentence breaks off into a soft moan.

“Maybe?” he offers, drawing back with a wet little noise. “I don’t know if I got a terribly good look at how big it, ah. Actually is?” 

“Pretty big,” she says, putting both hands on his hips, and all at once he finds himself flipped onto his back, her muscles flexing as she turns the both of them over. He closes his eyes and breathes out hard, the arousal sharpening in him all at once, a painful twist of heat in the pit of his stomach. “I think it would help.” 

“Right,” he says, and sits back to watch as she slips out of the camisole the rest of the way and then her pyjama pants. She’s not wearing anything underneath. Her clit is half-hard but so slick that his eyes can’t help but be drawn to it; she doesn’t get fully hard often, not without help, at least, but every time he touches her she gets so slick his hand slides smooth and easy, a mess of precome all over the sheets. He likes it. He reaches out, entirely on impulse, to fit his hand around the shape of her and stroke, and she grins, something sharp and fierce, pushing back into his touch. Her fingers slide down to his hips and tug his pants the rest of the way off, working around his hand on her as best as she can, and he lifts his hips obligingly. 

“Hm,” she says, running a finger across his core, and then reaching into the nightstand. “Bit dry still.” There’s a half-empty bottle of lube in the nightstand, and he closes his eyes and relaxes into the pillows as she slicks her fingers up; sometimes that happens, and she doesn’t seem to mind, so it’s alright. It’s probably a hormonal thing, like the way she doesn’t always get fully hard. Her hands are colder when they reach back down to rub over his cock, and he tries to squirm away entirely on instinct for a moment. She pins his hips down with her other hand and puts a finger to either side of his cock, stroking it slowly up and down until it’s firm, the tip peeking out of the hood, and he makes soft little noises he can’t quite suppress, pushing up into the touch even as some of it gets to the point of oversensitivity where it goes from pleasure to pain. 

Georgie slips one finger inside him, slow and steady, not giving him a chance to tense up before it happens, and he flushes hard at the squelch of the lube and his own slick as she slowly, carefully fucks him with it, one hand still braced on his hip. After a moment, she pauses, and then repositions herself, straddling his thigh while reaching to the side to finger him, and as his own hips try to move against the weight of it she slowly grinds against him, leaving his skin shiny-slick. She looks good like this, her eyes bright, her cheeks red, and she looks down at him like she wants to eat him up. “Good?” she asks, pushing in another finger alongside the first and curling them in the way she’s learned Jon likes, and he means to say something instead of crying out, but the words are lost in a moan, and he nods and shudders instead. 

“Can you--” Jon isn’t sure what he’s asking for, beyond _more_ , and she strokes his hip gently, her fingers stilling. His head tips back and he bites back the plea as long as she can, but her fingers _aren’t moving_ , and finally, he lets himself say, “Georgie, _please_.” 

“Alright,” she says, her voice still so tender even as she’s torturing him with how slow she’s moving, and she leans down to kiss his side. “Good boy.” 

It’s never going to get old, hearing that, he thinks faintly, his whole body singing with the rightness of it as she gives in and fucks him harder with her fingers. When he reaches for her with desperate hands to pull her into a kiss, she goes, and the noises he wants to make are swallowed up by her own mouth instead. “My very good boy,” she continues, and twists her fingers just right, and all at once he goes from close to coming, like a switch flipped, so sudden and overwhelming it nearly hurts, and he clutches onto her tight as it sparks through him. 

Her fingers still for a moment as he gets his breath back, and then she draws them out, the slick sounds louder this time, and he squirms, feeling abruptly empty. “Do you want to try the toy now?” she asks, looking very pleased with herself. “Or do you need a minute?” 

“We can try,” he says, his whole body still limp and zinging with faint aftershocks of pleasure. The toy, when she retrieves it from the top of the dresser, still looks so much bigger than her fingers, smooth and black and with a curve only at the tip, and when she rubs it against his entrance his squirming is half anticipation and half nervousness. 

“You can do it,” she says, fond, and slowly, so slowly, starts to push it in. It looks big, but it feels bigger, and he holds onto the sheets tight and squeezes his eyes shut as it sinks into him, trying to will himself to relax as he’s filled all the way up, little fucked-out noises tumbling from his throat with every small shift forwards. He can feel Georgie’s gaze on him, even if he can’t see it; she reaches out for his hand, still clutching the bedsheets, and wraps her own hand around it as she pushes it in the rest of the way, and he lets go of the sheets to hold her instead. 

“You know,” she says, looking down at it. “It _does_ have a remote control.” 

“Hn,” Jon contributes, as eloquent as he is capable of being in this moment, and opens his eyes a crack when he feels the bed shift. She’s running the show here, and so when she directs his hand down to hold the dildo steady and kneels up by his head, he turns his own head obediently and opens his mouth so she can rub her clit against it. And then he hears a faint _click_. She’s switched the remote on. 

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, high and startled, as the dildo inside him begins to move, fucking him hard and deep, its rhythm so steady he doesn’t have a moment to adjust to it, and all of the rest of the words he might say flee his head all at once. It’s so much. He’s holding it a little, but he’s not in control of what happens to it; that’s Georgie’s job, and she’s watching him with bright, intent eyes as it fucks him with its smooth mechanical motions. 

Georgie slowly feeding her clit into his mouth is a welcome distraction, and he moves his tongue against it as best as he can as the toy moves, every steady shove so overwhelming he can barely think past it. He closes his eyes and sucks and she strokes through his hair, so gentle in contrast to the way she’s taking him apart without even having to touch him, and when she begins to rock her hips he moves with it. He thinks he’s almost got the rhythm of it, almost got a handle on the pleasure curling painfully through him, when her hand tightens in her hair and he hears the button on the remote click again. 

He opens his eyes very wide.

“You can take it,” she says, petting his hair soothingly as the speed abruptly increases inside him, and he squirms, his hips working back against the toy and noises tumbling out of his mouth, increasing in volume and pitch until they’re just little whines, until finally, mercifully, she cuts him back off with her clit sliding back into his mouth. It’s so wet, still, stretching the corners of his mouth and filling him with the taste of her, and he stops thinking entirely for a long, blissful moment, letting himself be something that she can use and play with as she likes. He likes it so much. He didn’t realize he would like it so much. 

“Good,” she says, pushing her hips up into his mouth and holding deep as she shudders, filling his mouth up, and he closes his eyes again and lets it linger, the toy still moving in its unceasing steady rhythm, pushing him closer and closer to the edge with every deep push. It takes the slightest touch to push him over, just the steady pressure of her palm over his cock, curving down just enough to touch where the toy is spearing him open, and the world spirals away for a blissfully agonizing moment. He knows he’s saying something, but can’t tell what, too far gone for it. 

“More?” she asks, when he can think again, when he has enough air to breathe, and part of him wants to, but the sensitivity is turning to pain, and he’s not sure if he keeps going that he’ll be able to _walk_ tomorrow, and so he shakes his head. 

“Can’t,” he mumbles, licking his lips to try and get the words out properly. 

“Alright,” she says, and clicks the toy off. She draws it out of him carefully, and he squirms as it leaves him, sore and open and good, deeply satisfying in a way he’s not sure he has proper words for. 

Georgie holds him close, after, in the mess that the two of them have made, and he’ll want to get up and get a shower soon; if he falls asleep like this he’ll hate himself in the morning, too overwhelmed with the disgust of all of the--fluids on him to remember how it felt in the moment, but for now, he’ll let himself rest. 

“Good review, then?” she asks, her fingers slowly twirling one of the curls of his hair tighter. She’ll probably need a proper indepth review later. He’s not sure he’s got any of the brain cells for it at the moment. 

“Mm,” he agrees, snuggling in closer. This is the part he loves more than any of the rest of it, getting to be close, after, the warm, comfortable intimacy. He’s got classes tomorrow, and a paper to finish, and a hundred other things to be stressed about, but for a brief moment, he just gets to be small and warm and held, and everything else seems easy, after that. 

He curls in against her, tucking his head between her breasts, and she lets him linger there for a long moment, still stroking his hair, her arms keeping him cradled close to her.


End file.
